


Spans of Immeasurable Distance

by thewhitestag



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhitestag/pseuds/thewhitestag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dogs are heroes. Dogs are fools. Dogs go lumbering into danger for the ones that they love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spans of Immeasurable Distance

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a different take on the "Damian loves cats" fanon in a way that didn't just make it into a gag trait, especially since it came from a detail in the 666-verse, where everything is about traumatic memories. So here's what is probably the most uncute variation of the trope.

 “Damian—”

“It doesn't matter. We can just buy another one.”

“Damian.”

And he can tell from the way Grayson's voice goes firm, that he is about to say something absurd, something ridiculously sentimental. But Damian doesn't need to hear it; he won't.

His fist cuts through the air. Slams against Grayson's lower ribs, hard enough to bruise the bone, right through the layers of the heavy overcoat. Damian can imagine the way the injury will look against the skin, violet rounds, mapping out the impact of his knuckles.

A nerve strike would have been enough to silence the man, would have been more efficient, but Damian's got energy to spare. Too much energy, too much everything. He's clenching his fists so tight, his nails are starting to cut through the skin of his palms.

Grayson sways back from the punch, but he takes it. Imbecile. He's just going to let himself be attacked, and that only makes Damian angrier. It burns up into his eyes, across his skin. Fine. If Grayson wants to be a punching bag, so be it. Damian raises his arms, ready to pummel the man until he vomits blood, but with a dizzying abruptness, the heat of his rage evaporates.

It lifts away into the night and Damian tries reaching after it, but it's already beyond his grasp. For a wild moment, Damian considers hitting Grayson anyway; he doesn't.

He's still angry. But this is a cold fury, a hollow where a fire had once burned. It's a nagging emptiness that makes him feel alone. He thrusts his hands into his coat pockets.

Grayson rests a palm against his back, and Damian doesn't have the will to pull away.

“He was family.”

Damian tries not to flinch at the words.

The smell of soil is strong in his nostrils; the freshly-turned earth at his feet is dark. The headstone is smaller than all the others in the family cemetery, but similar in its simple cross design.

“A cat, next time,” Damian says, and hates how hoarse he sounds, how the words muddle thick in his throat. “Cats are more intelligent. More scrupulous.”

Something close to anger rises up again in Damian and he lets it flood through him.

“Cats understand how to take care of themselves. They don't rush head-first into danger.”

Too late, Damian realizes it's not anger at all but desperation tinging his voice, filling his veins. Grayson brushes the back of Damian's neck, where gauze covers a healing wound; the pressure of his fingertips tickles through the material. The bandage makes a rasping noise as Grayson touches it, stiff where the blood has soaked through and dried.

“Titus was a hero,” Grayson pronounces, again resorting to that sentimental nonsense, and goddamn it, it's not good enough.

Damian scoffs. “He was a dog. A stupid lumbering Dane.”

But the fool won't be deterred. Never knows when to hold his tongue.

“He loved you very much. If he hadn't tried to save you—” And then Grayson's voice cracks. “He bought us the extra time that we needed.”

The hand on Damian's neck slides down to his shoulder, clutching with urgency. Damian can feel Grayson's eyes on him, but he stays rigid. Keeps staring ahead. Refuses to turn to meet his gaze. The look on the idiot's face, it would tear him apart.

“Damian, I was so scared.” Grayson's voice is high and unsteady. Fragile. It wavers, searching for something that Damian doesn't know he can offer, even if he were willing. “When Bruce said the assassins were in the manor—that they'd captured you, I thought we were too late…” He pauses, a shivering breath. “Damian. God, I thought—”

Damian stops him. Moves his foot against Grayson's, so they line up side by side. Solid. I'm here, he's trying to say.

Grayson wants to hold him. He doesn't ask, not with his voice, but Damian pivots into his touch anyway. Lets the arms wrap heavily, enveloping him.

There's no breeze at all tonight, cold as it is. It makes the air feel empty around them. Makes the distance between objects seem wider, insurmountable. Closer or farther, they are just different magnitudes of infinity, unquantifiable measures of separation, like asking after the breadth of the sky.

He can't tell if Grayson is crying, or just shaking. He doesn't want to know. He just keeps his head against Grayson's chest, ear pressed to his heartbeat.

No more dogs. No more dogs. No more dogs.


End file.
